


Blood Simple

by inkandchocolate



Series: Blood Simple [1]
Category: Angel - Fandom, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, F/M, M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-24
Updated: 2010-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandchocolate/pseuds/inkandchocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith meets Spike. Things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alabaster

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Notes: This came from a game of "What If?" What if...Spike managed to track down Faith before she got to LA? What if, indeed.
> 
> For Jules, who plays a mean-ass game of "What If?"

It's all about the blood, really.

She knew it, deep inside, with an instinct that had carried over from...then. Now she knew a lot about the blood. But she remembered how she liked it even back in the bygones. It made everything so nice. It was what kept the vamps hunting, kept their demons alive. It was what made the humans die, the loss of it. It was what gave the color to the bruised skin.

And oh yeah, there was something so pretty about a bruise on white skin. It was worth the pain to see it rise up there, purple and blue. Some of them bruised so nice, too. It took only a few well placed hits and the bruises would bloom like flowers in the summertime. Yeah, fucking gorgeous! She loved to see them, and to know she was the one who made them.

They were little, or in some cases when she was too pissed or too drunk or both, not very little reminders that pain wasn't always invisible. It was so wicked to see someone walk around with their wounds showing. Not like hers. Even back when the people who hurt her had been leaving marks, they left them where they wouldn't show unless Faith had stripped and walked in public naked. By the time she reached the age where she fucking well would have stripped just about anywhere if it meant someone would see, they were no longer hitting her with *things.* They were carving her up with words. And that was when Faith got the idea to just get out. She was gone.

There had been a lot of blood between then and now. Fighting, and Slaying, and running and running. Vamps. Demons. They all got to feel some of the pain. She wanted to believe the vamps felt the pain before they dusted. Just in case, she beat the almighty shit out of them before she staked them. Just to be sure, you know how it is. She trusted in the redemption of the shared pain.

Then there was the other shit in her life. There was something that could have been friendship. There was something that could have been trust. And there was something that could have been tenderness. All she had to do to get it all was stand next to the Almighty Goddess and suck up the bitter taste of second best. All she had to do was pretend that it was all good, being thought of as the "other." After all she'd been through, that should be nothing, right?

Wrong. So fucking wrong that there were no words to describe it. She'd been down so long that there was no way she was going to give up the spotlight that she deserved. It was her right, and there was no way she was walking away, or kissing ass, or letting them tell her what to do. She trusted for a bit, yeah, but that kicked her in the ass in the long run.

That had been her second Watcher, and it hurt to think how much she trusted that woman. It was like being handed everything you didn't know you needed in one package. She told Faith how strong she was, called her a good fighter, compared her to legendary warriors. And she'd done some other things that Faith knew the Council wouldn't be down with. Things that she knew weren't happening between the Golden One and her Watcher, unless her radar was so far offbase that she couldn't pick up sex signals anymore. So she'd let the woman train her in more ways than was in the Slayer Handbook, and she'd told herself it was genuine.

She let herself fall into the Watcher's hands, literally. And into her mouth, and onto her tongue. And when the Watcher demanded performances from her pupil as well, Faith had done it, done all she was asked, in the hope that her little voice inside was wrong. She wanted so badly to trust for once.

That came back to haunt her. Never again, she swore. Never again. Now it was easier anyway. Now it was all about the blood again.

**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**

He'd taken her by surprise as she was crouched over the body of the last girl she'd been playing with. That one had bruised so nice, so easy, and her tears were like crystals, magnifying the dark markings on her face and on her neck when they slipped down. When Faith didn't lick them up first. So she was watching the girl, who had passed out a few minutes earlier, and she was touching the bruises - there - there - and there, too - and she was marveling at how the blood inside was making such lovely shades of purple and blue. She was so distracted that she never heard him coming.

He must have been watching her from outside the window. He must have watched her and the girl do their thing. Must have waited until Faith was done beating the shit out of her partner and was all caught up in the revelry of the bruises. He just kicked in the door and grabbed her by the hair. Wrapped it in his fist once, twice, and wrenched her head to the side. Buried his teeth in her there without any of the usual bullshit.

Faith gasped and her hands flew back, grabbed at his head and tried to pull him off but it was a weak effort. Panic had sent adrenaline through her system and it made her dizzy instead of sharp. But he was sharp, his teeth were needles, daggers, they were stabbing into her like no pain she'd ever felt before.

His other arm came around her naked body, drawing her in closer and tighter to him. His clothes were cold and rough against her skin, and the grip brought the little air in her lungs out of her in a loud whoosh. Her chest couldn't expand for her to draw any more in, the black spots that were taking over her vision begin to pulse with red at the edges, and she had a moment to realize she was dying before it actually happened. Her feet kicked against the bed in a spasm, grinding her bare bottom into his groin. She noted, dazed, that his cock was hard.

Then black. Her last thoughts were of bruises on white skin, and of her mother.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

She was amazed that she got to have another chance, although when she woke up, Faith was a different girl. Everything was immediately sharper - sight and sound and smell. And desire. That was sharper, too. She was still naked, in the same room where she'd died, and now she could see things she never saw before. A crack in the corner of the bedpost. A spider on the ceiling. A man in the chair who had most definitely not been there before. Familiar man. Vague sense of having seen him not so long ago.

"So," Faith said, stretching her neck awkwardly and resisting the urge to put her hand to where he'd drained her. "Does this mean I call you Daddy?"

He chuffed out a cloud of smoke with a short little barking laugh. "Yeah, I suppose so," he answered her. Didn't move, though. Didn't make any attempt to touch her. "Hungry, pet?"

"Starving," she hissed and felt her face shift, melt into the face of her demon. She sat up straight on the bed, an arc of pain racing through her now that he'd called attention to her need for food. "Starving, starving, starving," she chanted as she rolled to hands and knees and swayed over to him with the loose limbed crawl of a lioness.

He reached down beside him and tossed a heavy bundle onto the bed, stopping her in her tracks. It was the girl. She was awake. Bound with strips of the bedsheets. Gagged. Shaking, vulnerable. Terrified.

Delicious.

With a growl that felt like a purr to Faith, she fell upon the girl and ripped her to pieces. Her throat first, of course, gulping down the hot blood as it gushed out in slowly decreasing arcs. Then she tore into every piece of flesh that she had bruised earlier, biting and sucking, and eating and eating and eating.   
Faith looked up at her Sire with yellow eyes and a feral grin. Blood was all over her like a painted suit, shining and smelling like death. It was inside of her, too, singing in her veins, making her feel hot, making her want. She reached out a hand to the man who had made her into this wonderful dark thing, and he stared at it a few moments before he took it in his own. Catching her eyes with his own, he let his game face slip on as he brought her hand up to his mouth and slowly licked her fingers clean.

"What a pair we'll make," he whispered to her when her fingers were shining and alabaster. "What a wicked pair, luv."

She smiled, and walked on her knees across the pieces of the girl she had fed on and then slipped off the bed onto the floor between his legs. She put her demon face against his chest and let it slide to his lap. She rubbed her ridged forehead against the hardness she found there. One of his hands dropped to her hair, which was sticky with the drying blood that had flown everywhere in her feeding. He stroked it, and let his head fall back on the cheap dirty fabric of the chair, and smoked while he stared at the ceiling. The smoke drifted, white as his hair, and he saw vague patterns in it.

His new scar ached vaguely in the way that healing flesh did. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and let his fingertips wander over the short raised ridge hidden in his hairline. The man who had removed his chip hadn't been the most skilled of surgeons, but he had had the advantage of not knowing who the hell he was dealing with. The minute he'd put in the last stitch, Spike had decided to give the chip-free version of himself a trial run.

The doc might not have been skilled, but that first bite had been exquisite. His blood had been like a youth serum, better than any blood he ever tasted before. He'd had an erection the minute his teeth broke the skin and an orgasm before the body was drained. He'd killed three more people that very night. He felt like he was back to his old self again. Now he had some things to take care of. Some people who had taken him lightly when he was unable to behave in his natural ways were in for a rude awakening.

Faith was purring, her face still in his lap. Spike took a long drag from the cigarette and flicked it away to the corner of the room. It landed in a spot of carpet soaked with blood and went out with a hiss. He reached down with both hands and drew her face up to look at him. Her golden eyes blinked slowly once, twice, then with a small shudder, her human face was back. It was a lovely mask. He rubbed his thumbs across her cheeks and pushed his own demon down below.

"Let's get you cleaned up. We have a little trip to make." Spike led Faith to the tiny bathroom and she followed meekly behind.

~end


	2. Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spike teaches Faith something important, and they're on the move.

The road stretched out in front of them, black on black in the night, the lines hovering like ghosts. The old car was full of the smells of smoke and blood and death. Times like these made Spike think that the night would never end, that they were destined, finally, to rule forever.

He spared a glance from the deserted road to the figure on the seat beside him. Lush dark hair, eyes like bitter chocolate, skin that shimmered. Naked as usual. Faith had little tolerance for clothes since her turning. This all suited Spike quite well.

She turned to him then, slow smile curling her lips. Tip of tongue darting out like a snake's to moisten her mouth. Stretching those long long legs out in front on her and raising them to the dashboard. Head on knees now, body folded in half, still smiling at him with her wet and brazenly full lips. Faith could have been a statue made of marble, carved for the worship of young pagans in some long ago era.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

He'd only taken her once since he'd turned her. After leading her to the bathroom of the dirty motel room, after standing her under the slightly rusty water to let the blood wash from her hair and skin, after she'd been clean on the outside, if not within. She'd stepped out of the shower to find him watching her with a look that she'd become accustomed to long before, when she was still human. It was lust, raw and dark, not a thing of tenderness. It was the mark of wanting to possess her.

Before she could open her mouth to say something, to acknowledge what was hanging in the air, he'd grabbed her by the hair and ground his mouth down on hers. His tongue thrust in between her lips and she parted them willingly. He tasted to her like smoke and she sucked him in further. He growled with pleasure and then released her abruptly. She staggered, nearly falling back into the tub, but his hand was on her shoulder suddenly, turning her around.

With a flash of deja-vu, she realized he was holding her now like he'd held her when he killed her, arm like an iron band around her chest, bare breasts just lying on his skin. She heard his zipper come down and he was kicking her legs apart and then he was inside of her with one push. She gasped at the feel of it, ice cold in her still warm core, and her face shifted to its true countenance. He was still dressed, she could feel the roughness of his jeans against her bare skin, the metal of the buttons hurting her as they dug into the tender flesh of her bottom.

Spike never said a word. Game face on from the moment he entered her, he just reveled in it all. The power over her, the mastery of her body, the tightness of her, the heat on his cold, hard cock. She'd lose the heat soon enough he knew - it was from the blood she'd just taken and from the shower. But for now, he was fucking her, hot and hard and in and in, deep as he wanted to go. Her breasts bounced against his arm as he pushed and he tightened his grip on her, lifting her up so that her toes barely brushed the wet tile floor. When her head fell back against his shoulder he, had her bare neck right where he wanted it. Soon, soon.

He lifted her a bit more, holding her now with his arm and his cock, and to his delight Faith growled and tried to grind herself down further on him. He gave her his other hand then, slipped the fingers between the mass of curls where he was already buried inside of her. He found her clit, swollen and pouting out from the dark nest as if seeking his touch. In his mind's eye, it was the color of a plum, dark, ripe, luscious. His middle finger grazed it and she shrieked and shuddered. He nearly lost his grip at her reaction and his cock gave a huge throbbing jerk that he felt to his heels.

He backed up a step and pivoted, seating himself on the edge of the tub. He spread her legs over his own, white as moonlight over the black of his jeans. Now she was wide open to him and he could pleasure her at his leisure. Or not. Spike grinned with the demon's face, and with a flexing of his hips drove his cock a little deeper inside of her.

Faith's hands came down to rest on the one he had between her legs, urging him to stroke her there. She was writhing on his lap, impaled and trying to get more of him. Her hands pushed and she gave a little grunt when he allowed her to stoke herself with his fingers. Her muscles were flexing, holding him inside of her with a grip of satin over iron. Finally he released his hold from around her chest and let that hand come up to cup her breast, thumb running over the hard nipple, the aureola drawing in upon itself with taunt little waves and ridges from his coldness, her arousal. He tweaked the swelling tip gently once, then again hard and twisting. When the pain hit her, Faith whipped her head forward and back, the muscles in her cunt squeezing him so tight that he nearly went over the edge himself.

Slowly stroking her entire breast now with a hand that were gentle, Spike waited for Faith to relax her grip just a little. When that time finally arrived, the hand that was still resting between her legs began to move in languid motions to match the ones being lavished on her breast. He let her fall into the lull of the rhythm, up and down, brushing over and over, bringing Faith's body to the heights in a slow but sure beat. Never stopping his pressure on her clit, he released her breast despite her small whimper of displeasure and used that hand instead to press her back against him until Faith's head lay again on Spike's shoulder and her neck was bared to him again.

"Oh, very nice, pet," he crooned into her ear before his tongue swept over the curve of skin and muscle where neck joined shoulder. Then his teeth were in her, too and she was screaming this time and moving, and grinding herself down on his cock, pressing his hand against her swollen and tortured clit, and screaming and screaming and screaming.

Spike pulled his hand away from her with a violent jerk, and gripped her shoulders with both hands, holding her still. Her screams turned to growls of frustration as he fed from her and fucked her and made her insane with wanting both so badly. His hips jerked up into her with hard, sharp motions that were all about his needs, his desires, and his mouth was full of her blood. She quivered there on him, feeling a pull between the needs of her cunt and the needs of her demon. She wanted to fuck, to come, to get that climax that was being held back just out of her reach. And she wanted to feed. On Spike.

And he knew it. He knew it oh so well, that lovely pull of the blood finally taking over all others. More important than anything else, more important than any orgasm no matter how close it might be, nothing in the world like it. The siren's song of it, the sight and the smell of it, the taste of it in your mouth, ruled every reaction of a vampire's body, and if she learned to embrace it as he had ... oh, the things he could show her. So here was the test. Would she?

He released her shoulders, let his hands slide down her arms in a caress. Faith quivered and whimpered for a fraction of a second. She could feel Spike's fangs, still buried in her neck, but the sensation of loss wasn't as great as it had been at first. Now she could feel his tongue behind the bite, tracing the skin below where he penetrated her. She could feel one single track of hot fluid from the puncture mark slip down her back and between them to be absorbed by the shirt he was wearing, one that had already taken in the wetness from her body out of the shower. Faith let her hands come up and over Spike's and lay there. His cock was throbbing between her legs and her clit seemed to be matching the rhythm. But he was still, so still, and it was all up to her now. No guidance was coming from her Sire. She knew, just knew deep in the core of her, that he was looking for her to do something, something right, something real. But she was so tired, so strung out, the smell of sex and blood hung heavy in the air and she couldn't think at all, she could only feel the need, the drive.

Then sudden insight, flash of utter rightness, just let the demon make the choice and it was blood. Faith drew Spike's wrist to her mouth in a flash, and let her teeth sink in and she drank and drank. He was drinking from her again as well, they were emptying and filling each other now, and as the blood rushed through her she realized that she got it all this way. They were one; they were united; they were bound. With a sudden blur of movement, he was fucking her again, cock pistoning in hard and fast, his free hand rubbing her brutally hard as well, and in an instant she was there and over, shrieking against the wrist that she refused to release even in that moment of climax. And then Spike was filling her everywhere at once, her mouth with his blood and her cunt with his come and her ears with his growling sounds of pleasure.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

"So where we headed, Daddy?" she asked him now, head still tilted towards him and resting on her bare legs.

"Oh, we're going to pay our respects to a few people, ducks. Some of them will be less than happy to see us, I'll wager." Spike grinned and glanced at her for a moment. Then his eyes were back on the road, back to the night that covered everything like blueberry syrup.

Faith purred from her side of the car and then let herself slide over in the seat. She rested her head beside his thigh, bumping it like a puppy craving her master's attention. He dropped his hand to her hair and stroked it. She turned her face up and captured two of his fingers in a mock-hard bite, then tickled the tips of them with her tongue before releasing them. She fondled her own breasts, teasing her nipples with her fingernails before letting one hand wander down to the wet and wanting place between her legs.

"Tell me all about it, " she whispered to him as her fingers started to move.

Spike looked over again at her, saw her hands busy at tit and clit, grinned broadly in the darkness. "Shall we pull over for a little while then, ducks?" He steered to car to the side as he spoke and let it roll to a stop. "I'd like to watch the show."

The moon and stars shone down on the old car, windows painted over black, concealing the darker things inside.

~end.


	3. Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin.

Once it was started, Spike knew it would have to be seen through to the end. There would be no time for stopping, for hesitation or doubt. Once set in motion, they would have to continue the dance until the music ceased.

He was never very big on planning, he thought to himself for the ten-thousandth time that day. Some men are just not made for it. He was a man of action, he knew what he wanted and he went after it. Sitting around and thinking and talking and working through every bloody detail made him want to scream. Yet, in some cases, even he had to admit that there were details that needed attention. Especially when those details could kill. And there were many of those kinds of lethal tasks involved in this particular venture. Yes, there would be plenty of killing. However, he counted on being the one doing the killing. And of course, Faith would be doing some important wet work of her own.

If they ever got out of this bloody hotel room that is, he thought impatiently, too wired and strung out to rest, despite the sunlight that surrounded him.

The place where he and Faith had gone to ground at sunrise was an old nameless hotel, the manager asleep at the desk so they were simply able to walk in and take the key to whatever room they chose. Faith covered his body with bruises before she drained him dry and tossed him beneath the counter out of site. They'd be well on their way before he was missed, if he ever was.

Once in the room, inches of dust covering everything but the well-sprung bed, Faith had muttered, "Wild," in a vague and dreamy way before laying down and falling into the coma-like sleep she occupied during daylight. After covering the widow and wedging the door shut, Spike down lay beside her, thinking and smoking, and wishing it was night again so they could get this started.

Frankly, he was not entirely sure of Faith but he didn't know why. It ate at the corners of his mind, though. She'd come through the turning just fine. Her innate dark nature had accepted the demon as if it was what she'd been born for. Her Slayer strengths magnified the dark gift tenfold. Their blood bond grew deeper with every shared feeding.

And she was in heat most of the time she was awake.

Spike couldn't put his finger on just what it was that left him in doubt. She'd shown herself to be eager to learn the lessons he taught, the little that she needed teaching. She was born to fight and feed, it seemed. She hunted with the skill of a leopard, a lioness, some exotic cat of death. She rarely played with her food, enjoying the satiation of the blood to the taunting and the fear beforehand. However, Spike was sure that in a few months, when the novelty wore off, she'd be awesome when it was time to torture and season the meat.

So was it really Faith that had him worried?

He put his hands over his forehead and squinted through the smoke at her. What the fuck was wrong with him? She was a gorgeous, soulless, killing machine. His body stirred at the thought of her, but he pushed that away for now. For a while. Plenty of time for that later. Afterwards. An eternity for it, if it all went as planned.

If.

And if it didn't, then there would be no more worries at all, beyond the answer to the question, "Where does a vampire go when he's dust?"

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Moonrise.

Faith's eyes opened with a snap and she sprang up off the bed like she was on a wire. Spike grinned at her; the first time it had been a shock to see her come awake like that. It looked as though she had fought the sleep she needed the whole time, straining hard against the bonds of rest until finally, finally, they released her at sunset to do her will again.

She'd gotten a strong sense of survival skills when she turned. She could practically smell holy ground from a mile away and wouldn't go near, cowering down in the seat when they passed a rural church on the backroads. She could feel sunset and sunrise come, almost to the minute. She wasn't even fond of referred light at this point. But she was getting more confident, night by night, and soon she would be...

"Wicked," he said aloud, not even aware of having spoken until she smiled at him.

"Like father, like daughter," she said to him, slinking over to where he stood, to embrace him, lick his lips and steal a kiss. "Are we ready?"

He sighed, a great gust of unnecessary air moving through lungs long done with such matters. He took her shoulders in his hands, not quite gently, and looked her in the eyes.

"You know, pet, once this starts, it's all the way. No stopping. It's fast and hard until we're through." He squeezed her shoulders just once for emphasis. "Have you got it clear what's to be done?"

"Fast and hard, Daddy," she whispered. "Just the way your baby likes it."

And he laughed then. Pulled her closer, kissed her hair, tossed aside the last lingering doubts.

"We're off then, my love." Opening the door, he let her go out first and then followed. "Are you cold? Should we get you something to wear?" He was used to the nakedness she had embraced, but perhaps for this she would want some cover, some protection...a mask.

"I'm five by five," she answered with a calm, cool voice, so unlike her new self that it gave him pause.

"Right," he said softly. Closing the door behind them with a strangely gentle touch, he watched her glow through the empty lot and climb into the car. "Right, then."

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Faith was so keyed up that her nails were digging grooves into the wall beside her, scratching over and over like a cat cleaning its claws. She hadn't moved, not a blink of an eye, not the tensing of a muscle, except for that repetitive scratch-scratch-scratch.

She was waiting. Focused. Intent. Everything was clear in her mind. She could see it happening as if it had already occurred. There was no doubt. No fear. No worry.

Just excitement.

When she finally had her prey in site, she actually gasped in glee before standing and stalking with lightning speed to the end of the alley. The lone figure walked quickly ahead of her, the street fairly deserted, large pools of shadow waiting to swallow her and the one she stalked in-between the circles of overhead lights.

She timed her prey's walk. Click click - light. And click click - shadow. And click click - light. And click click - shadow. And...

And Faith had the dark head in her hands, one covering the mouth, the other holding so tight that the prey couldn't have gotten loose without breaking their neck to do so. Dragging the body with her so fast that the people on the streets across from them wouldn't have seen the commotion even if they'd been looking, Faith was back down the alley and through the door at the end of it before anyone could have bothered to notice that the pretty girl with the long dark hair and the armful of books had never come into the next circle of light.

That door at the end of the alley led to a dark and unused basement. The only things down there were rotting cardboard boxes, smashed glass fragments, and rodent droppings from a time when it had appealed to the vermin to live there. And now Faith was there.

And so was Cordelia.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Spike was outside the offices of Angel Investigations, pacing. Angel was inside, far below the street. Spike could feel him, ties of the Sire calling to him despite the many things that divided them. Despite the hatred and anger and resentment, there was always the pull of the bloodline.

Fucking always there.

There was no way for Spike to be within the city and not have Angel know about it. This was not even a point to consider - there was no way to avoid him. So the plan was to go in there and confront him. Occupy his mind while other things were happening. Keep the man busy.

In whatever way it took.

Spike was relatively sure that they weren't going to have tea and crumpets. Or share a pint of Guinness and talk about how it was in London in the old days. It wasn't going to be the return of the prodigal childe. It was going to be...messy.

"Bloody hell," he finally growled out from clenched teeth and strode up the steps and into the building. He walked through the front door and past the outer offices with all the bravado of a school yard bully, and only when his hand touched the doorknob to the stairway leading to Angel's quarters did he pause. Hand barely brushing the cold metal, he just stopped in his tracks.

Ridiculous, really, Angel knew he was there - he'd come blundering in like a damn war-horse, clumping across the wooden floor as if he was the Anti Stealth Poster Child. But the smell from below was riveting. It was so familiar. It was...

Candlewax, and linen with lavender, and ... and blood, warm blood.

Moving as if in a trance, Spike opened the door and began walking down the steps, his tread made lighter by the enchantment of the odors filling his head. By the memories they called up.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Cordelia's body hit the far wall with a muffled thump and the sound of a scream being knocked right out of itself. She pushed her hair out of her eyes with a hand that was filthy and shaking and looked up to see something out of her worst nightmares. Something lithe and white and human. And not.

"What's...what's going on?" she choked out, throat constricted in fear and nearly deaf from the blood hammering in her ears. She tried briefly to stand but when she made the first movement, a sound came from her attacker that made her stop at once.

"Now now, Cordelia."

The oddly familiar voice paralyzed her. Who was that? Cordelia's eyes strained to see through the darkness, and as they adjusted to the level of light, she began to see a face, dark eyes, someone she thought she'd never see again. "Faith?"

"See, and they all said you were the dumb one." Faith laughed with glee, clapping her hands like a child who'd gotten the one gift she'd been waiting for her whole life. "Let's see what else you know. It'll be fun."

"Stay away from me, you homicidal bitch!" Cordelia rasped out, unable to help the thrill of self preservation that suddenly enervated her. She lurched to her feet, hands out in a protective gesture, terrified out of her wits but trying desperately to stall, to wait for Angel to come in here and save her.

Because that's what he did. Saved people. Like her.

Please God, thought Cordelia wildly, let him save me.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

The candles were lit on the kitchen table. Old candles. Beeswax, like they had always had before. And the linens. Where the hell was the smell of lavender in the linens coming from? Dru had had lavender sachets in all the sheets, in all the fine linen sheets that had been soft as silk against their white, white skin. His skin. And Dru's. And Angelus'. All together in the one bed with the candlelight.

And oh, the blood.

There was the blood, scent of life in the incongruous mug by the microwave. Before it had been right from their throats, and their wrists and their thighs. Sometimes from a crystal goblet, when they were playing. But the smell, that was the same. Then it had been the blood of virgins and urchins. Now it was the blood of animals. Yet it was still the same powerful scent. And Christ how the memories came washing over him.

He never even saw Angel, standing at the door to his bedroom, the sheets he'd just replaced lying crisp on the huge bed behind him. And Angel never said a word as he watched his Childe; he saw Spike's hand reach out to the flame, fingers slowly passing over the heat of it. Old habits die hard, and Angel suppressed a grin that took him by surprise. He was startled to hear the voice that came as silently as a whisper.

"Do you do this often, or only when I'm in town?" Spike never turned, he kept his fingers hovering over the flame and his back to Angel. His eyes were wide open and staring at nothing. This wasn't how he'd thought things would go. It was as far from what he'd tried to plan out as it could have gotten.

Angel shrugged his shoulders the slightest bit, as though realizing the gesture was unseen but unable to stop himself anyway. He cleared his throat, looked away from the straight backed blonde who was waiting for a reply, glanced back up again. Still no answer presented itself. He was embarrassed at being caught indulging in his memories, at seeking comfort from an era that should have been one he tried to forget forever. But he'd been thrown so far off track by the actress who'd managed to bring the beast to bear not so very long ago and by the consequences that the unleashing of his demon had wrought, that all he wanted around him was the things he found familiar. Warm. Comfortable despite the acts that had accompanied the scents all those years and years ago. The light and the smell of the waxy candles, even the smoke they gave off, presented images of being sure of himself, being content, being where he belonged in the universe. The smell of the linens, Dru's smell then and always, was a vice for which he would have gladly gone to Hell again before allowing anyone to uncover. Too late for that little secret now.

"Not often, no," Angel finally offered, aware of the inanity of the statement. Aware of the way everything looked, especially to this visitor before him, who had finally turned and given Angel his gaze. Spike's eyes were bright, and full of...something Angel hadn't seen there in ages.

"So, here we are." Spike leaned back against the table, casual manner belying the tremors running through his body. "Sire," he added with a smirk.

Angel quirked an eyebrow at him. "Sire? There's a word I haven't heard from your lips willingly in...well, in forever." He crossed his arms and waited. It was not a comfortable silence. Indeed, the air seemed to be gathering sparks, while they waited with the scent of their history heavy around them.

Angel broke the waiting game. "OK, Spike. What brings you here to LA? Some kind of death wish, maybe you need me to kick your ass around again for old times' sake? Whatever it is, get to it. I don't have the time -"

A bark of laughter from Spike interrupted him. "Don't have the bleeding time? Well if you don't have time, then what exactly is it you do have? All you've got is time. Eternity, remember? It's in the handbook." Shaking his head, Spike patted down his coat pockets looking for his smokes. It covered the movements of his hands, which weren't quite steady at the moment, and broke the tension for them just a little. He finally located them and shook one out of the pack. Glancing up at Angel, he lit it and drew in a huge amount of smoke before grinning. The smoke wafted eerily from between his lips.

Quiet again.

"OK, fine." Spike slammed the lighter he'd been holding down on the table behind him and heard it skitter across the surface. "I'm here to see you. Maybe it's going to earn me an ass kicking. What the hell. Why not? All I know is that I can't stay around the bloody Sunnydale Rescue Squad another fucking minute and live with that...look in their eyes every time they see me. They think I'm useless. Impotent is the word they like to use most often." He stood from his reclining position and walked over to Angel, closer than either was exactly comfortable with, but still.

"So you came here to me expecting something better?" Angel asked him quietly. His eyes were dark, so dark that they looked to be no color at all, just blackness peering into Spike's own blue depths.

"With you, it's different. With you, it's... something else." Dropping his eyes, Spike felt himself quivering. Where the fuck had this all come from? This wasn't supposed to be about...well, it wasn't supposed to be about this. And he did not have these feelings for Angel, not now. Not after all that he'd been through. Not after Dru. Not after everything in the last hundred years. Not at all. So why was he shaking? And where were these words coming from?

Angel had gone stock still. Maybe it was the ambiance of the apartment, one he himself had set up. Indulgences were never good. Maybe it was the things that woman had said to him, teasing him with offers of the end of his loneliness. Companionship. Acceptance. A loosening of the ever-present bonds that held him into the shape he was wearing day to day, night after night. Maybe it was the look in his childe's eyes, one that he was quite sure that the childe himself was unaware of. He'd never been good at controlling or masking his feelings, not this one. The blood bond between them was screaming as it always did, wide awake at the proximity they shared. Angel felt like he was standing on the edge of something huge, and it was glittering at him so seductively that he couldn't turn away. Not yet. Just a little more, he told himself.

Then the blonde vampire was a step closer. The smell of him was in Angel's nostrils, mixed in with the other scents of the night, and he couldn't help but close his eyes for a moment to savor it: smoke and wax, blood and lavender. And Will.

He wasn't even surprised to feel the cool lips on his own, and he didn't open his eyes, or pull away.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Faith was enjoying herself. Without anyone's help, she was learning a lot about the added spice that extended fear could give to the smell of someone's blood. She'd thought Cordelia smelled pretty tasty when she got in the room. Now, though, after a little battering and some well placed remarks about just how exactly this whole scenario was going to end, the smell was just so rich and exquisite that she could hardly wait to taste it.

And she told her so, just to enjoy that burst of pheromones that flooded from Cordelia's pores. The little whimper was just an auditory extra. Bonus track.

Cordelia was retreating now, away from this place, into her mind where no one could get to her anymore. She knew now that Angel wasn't going to get to her in time. And she was almost alright with that. She was going to die here in the dark, with Faith. And it wasn't supposed to be that way, not at all. But things hadn't been going Cordie's way for quite some time now, so she'd learned to adjust. This was just going to be the biggest adjustment ever.

Her eyes slid closed again and she started to retreat to fond memories. High school dances, with her hair done in the salon just that afternoon, and her nails freshly manicured. New dress and shoes from the designer of the moment. Nothing but the best for Cordelia Chase. That's what her daddy always said. She deserved the best. Cutting edge.

Faith crouched down closer and slapped Cordelia's cheek, just a tap really, considering the power at her disposal. When she got no response, she tried it again, harder, so that the body on the ground rolled to the side with the force of it. Nothing.

"Now that's not going to work, Cordelia," Faith said loudly, grabbing a handful of hair and pulling Cordelia's face right up to her. "Get back here with me, we have things to talk about." She punctuated her words with a shake of her hand that finally brought Cordelia's eyes into focus again.

"Is this any way for Vision Girl to behave in the face of danger?" Faith asked, letting go of the handful of hair and helping pull the other girl into a sitting position against the cold and filthy wall. Cordelia allowed herself to be moved, her body soft and pliable as a rag doll.

"Just do it, Faith," Cordelia said in a breathy voice. "Just kill me, OK? Because frankly, your psycho act is getting a little dull.If you're waiting for me to have a vision, you're wasting your time. The Powers That Be have standards, and apparently you just don't quite cut it. I'm vision free around you. Thanks. I appreciate the cure."

"Let me give you one last vision, then, Cordie. That's what they called you, right - Cordie?" Faith paused and then sat down gracefully, leaned forward until her forehead rested on Cordelia's. Like a lover, she stroked the once lovely dark hair of the trembling girl. She appeared to have reached the end of whatever game she was playing here.

"Things are going to be so different now," Faith sighed into the scant space between her lips and the other girl's bruised and swollen ones. "Things are going to be just wicked." She finished this with a little kiss upon Cordelia's unsuspecting mouth, a chaste and cold touching of the flesh and nothing more.

Kiss of death.

Then she took Cordelia's head in her hands and jerked it once, very fast, very hard. The snap was loud as a crack of lightning in the small dark place.

And Faith was alone.

~end


	4. Darkling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions - you just never know what's going to happen when old friends get together.

The apartment was small, spare and spotlessly clean. It had the look of order about it - everything in its place. But there were touches of softness that kept it from having the anal retentive qualities of an army barracks. There were chintz curtains on the windows that would always bear smoky dirt smears, and a small plant on the counter in the closet that masqueraded as a kitchen. The furniture had seen better years several decades ago, but it was serviceable. Not home, but homey.

And the door had three exceptionally well made locks on it.

Wesley Wyndham Price was content here, for now. It was no great shakes, and someday he hoped to move on to better things, larger rooms and someone to share them with, something with lots of sun in the mornings. Perhaps something near the beach.

He kept his small space the way he knew his father would expect. Neat, clean as could be expected under the circumstances. Everything was always where it should be. No cup was ever left in the sink; it was washed and dried and placed away at once. No article of clothing was ever on the floor; it was hung at once to air over night, or tucked into the laundry bag in the closet out of sight. And all these little idiosyncrasies that others would see as a trial and a bore were done out of a habit that had been beaten into his head - literally - for so many years that it wasn't even a matter of thought now. It was instinct.

Wesley didn't think of it often anymore. Certainly not when he was alone and there was no one to drop an offhand remark or lift a dark brow at him, as Cordelia or Angel might have done. They would have done so with gentle ribbing, in the spirit of tightening friendship, although over the years most had been done in pure maliciousness. Easy target, new boy, prissy, uptight, overwound Wesley.

The things that shape a man.

Wesley tossed his mail on the counter and locked the door behind him -- one, two three. Tug on the doorknob to be sure. Jacket removed and hung up in the tiny closet that held his meager wardrobe. Once upon a time his closet had held tweeds and woolens and fine fabrics of all kinds. No longer. Gone with the Council's funding, sold off and left behind and lost forever. He stroked the leather jacket that hung in the darkest corner with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The things that shape a man, indeed.

Shutting the door firmly, he stepped into the tiny kitchen and filled his kettle with water, set it on the rangetop and waited to see if the fire would start. His luck was on the upside - it lit with the first try and he smiled again.

His mail, delivered to a post office box, was usually nothing worth looking at. But today the post had yielded a small parcel from home. He looked at the handwriting on the label and felt a twinge of homesickness. His mother was so good to him, despite the ire it would undoubtedly arouse in his father. His father, that great stickler for proper form and function, had summarily disowned Wesley when he had been sacked by the Watcher's Council. Wesley expected as much. It was a relief in many ways, to have finally achieved the great and absolute failure that his father had always said he was destined for.

His mother had said nothing, had kissed him with lips that trembled and whispered in his ear to let her know where to reach him. She hadn't been able to send money, of course; the old man had his hands on every pound that came into the house, but she sent other things, more important things. Letters about how things were going came once a month or so, news of his aunts and cousins, anecdotes about the few old school chums who had bothered to drop in for a visit, now and then a little parcel with his favorite biscuits or jelly. And today, a small box of tea from the little shop on the corner by their house; a small book of poems that had been his trusted companion when he was at University; a gray scarf with his initials embroidered in rich burgundy thread.

The tea kettle shrieked, startling Wesley out of his reverie. He turned off the flame and began to rummage in the drawer for the tea ball. Methodically, his mind turned over the past few days' events as his hands assembled the cup and saucer, filled the sterling tea ball with the fresh tea from his mother, poured boiling water over it and let it steep. The clean aroma of it was a welcome addition to the apartment's own close smells.

Wesley had thought he knew something of what it was like for his employer, Angel, and his life with the demon inside. He'd foolishly assumed that because Angel was in control whenever he was around them in the office, that he was indeed in control at all times. He made it look so effortless, as if it was merely on the level of avoiding something you wanted to do but knew was bad for you. Like Cordelia skipping the donuts once in a while, a small matter of just choosing not to take what you might like to have.

He'd been smacked full in the face with the reality of it when that damned tart of an actress had drugged Angel and released his hold on Angelus. To Wesley's relief it had been taken care of with none of them the worse for the ordeal physically. He was mortified to admit to himself how lightly he had treated something that was indeed a deadly threat to them all every single hour of every single day. Including Angel.

The beast was not resting lightly; Angel wrestled it to its knees with constant vigilance. It horrified Wesley to think that he had disregarded the enormity of it all. It would never happen again, this he swore to himself.

He realized he'd been standing there, staring at the wall like a man in a trance and shook his head lightly to dispel the fuzziness. Picking up his tea, he carried it gingerly to the couch and prepared to sit and relax for a bit. Nothing was happening, no demons were making themselves known, no one was in mortal danger and he could simply sit, and read his poems, and reminisce. How lovely.

As he bent to begin the descent to the couch, a furious banging came upon his door. He jerked in surprise, hot liquid splashing on his hand and causing him to drop everything to the floor. The cup shattered on impact and he swore.

"Damnation!"

The frantic banging came again and he lurched towards the door, awkward with the rush of adrenaline surging in him now. "What is it?" he called sharply, his hands shaking and undoing the locks, one, two...

He hesitated and peered through the tiny peephole. Whoever was out there was distorted and so close to the door that he couldn't see who it was. "What's this about?" he called again, his hand on the third lock, ready to turn but not quite. Something was strange.

"WESLEY!" The woman shrieked his name and he jumped. There was terror in that voice, so much of it that the sound was grating and freakish, sending a thrill of gooseflesh over him. He popped the third lock but didn't turn the knob.

"Who the hell is this?" he rasped against the door, his face plastered to the hole, straining to see who would be here, who would know him. He saw a sway of dark hair, flash of white arm as it banged on the door again, frantic, scrabbling nails, vibrations shaking him to his core.

"Cor-Cordelia? Is that you?" Wesley knew of no one else in the entire city who would know where he lived, who knew his name, who had that dark hair... Her face was turned to the hallway as if she was looking for something down there in the darkness.

"For the love of God, Wesley, let me- let me in! I need your help!" The shrieks came again, and he knew that the other doors on this hall would be locked tight against her and whatever she was running from. His heart was thumping wildly and he tore the door open, even as she screamed his name again.

"Get in here, quickly," he stammered, grabbing the upraised arm and pulling her into the apartment. She stumbled in past him and he slammed the door closed in a flash, turning the locks with a hand that was sure of its task from the weeks of repetition. He turned to face her, breathing out a great gust of air. "Good Lord, Cordelia, what in the world is happening?"

When he saw her, he realized three things in rapid succession.

She was not dressed. She was not Cordelia. She was not human.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Spike was in a state of confusion that was matched only by his state of arousal. He didn't know what had possessed him to press his lips to Angel's like that, but once he'd done it, there was something so right in it that he couldn't stop. And he wanted more. His cock throbbed at the very thought of it, the memories of all the things that had done together. Wild things. Dark things. Wanton and wicked and wonderful nights full of feeding and sex and blood and come...

His brain registered vaguely that Angel hadn't pushed him away after the kiss, and without looking for reasons behind it, Spike pressed his advantage. His arms crept up Angel's chest, fingers spread, feeling the silk of the black shirt. He deepened the kiss, tip of his tongue barely brushing Angel's lips, half of him waiting for the other man to grab him by the neck and throw him across the room, half of him wanting to toss Angel backwards onto the bed and just fuck him into the mattress. Incredibly, slowly, Angel began to kiss him back.

Spike tightened his hands into fists, bunching the silk and pulling himself tight against the taller man. Angel's tongue slipped between Spike's open lips as his hands came up and cupped Spike's face. Spike growled into Angel's mouth, a completely unconscious reaction to the feelings that had taken over his body. The sensations that Angel always evoked in him, so long buried, woke with a vengeance. To have this mouth on his again, to feel this body against his own - these were things Spike had never expected to experience. Only in his darkest dreams would he have ever admitted to the ties he had never relinquished, to the pull he would always feel for the one who had made him.

Angel took his time, kissing his Childe with a slow and controlled thoroughness that drove the younger vampire wild. //Oh, Will, how long has it been?// drifted through Angel's mind, for it was always 'Will' to him, never anything else when he thought of the blonde he held now. Angel's thumbs caressed those cheekbones, the skin over them taunt and amazingly familiar to him. And his mouth, oh God, this was Will's mouth open to him, matching every thrust of his tongue, and it was so good, so familiar, so very much what he needed right now. When he heard the growl come from deep within the smaller man's chest, Angel's already hard cock gave a painful throb, rocking him to the core. Though Angel's eyes were closed, every other sense was alive with the details of this moment. The rough sounds of Will's arousal, the sharp scents of leather and smoke that clung to him, the taste of his mouth, the silk of his skin; it all came crashing down on Angel, breaking through whatever defense he might have had. The familiarity of it all soothed the ancient hurt in his soul and aroused him beyond measure. He wouldn't have stopped now even if given the opportunity, and by the feel of Will's hips grinding into his own, neither of them was going to call a halt to it.

Angel's hands left their resting place on Spike's face and came down to pull off his coat. The movement broke their kiss and abruptly blue eyes met brown. Neither moved for a second, then Spike shrugged out of the duster and let it drop to the floor in a heap of worn leather. He skinned off the T-shirt he was wearing under it in a smooth movement and then reached out to grab the material that covered Angel's upper torso. He took hold of the shirt at the neckline and, with a slight grunt, tore it open in one rapid motion. Then he grabbed Angel by the back of the neck, stepped closer to him and attacked his mouth again. This time Angel was the one giving voice to his arousal, moaning at the contact of bare flesh against his own. //Too long, too long// Angel though vaguely, his arms flailing with the remains of his shirt as it slid from his shoulders and joined the old duster on the floor.

Suddenly it seemed to Angel there were still far too many layers of clothing between them from the waist down and the bed was miles away. He planned to remedy both of those issues immediately. Just as soon as it was possible to stop kissing Will, stop savoring the feeling of that tongue exploring his mouth.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

Wesley found himself frozen in that moment of time when everything became crystal clear. He had opened his door to his own death and invited it into his apartment, and the next few minutes were going to be his last.

Faith smiled at him, her grin frightening in its complete and utter pleasure. She had been so lovely in life, a Botticelli angel. And in some cruel twist, she was even lovelier in death. Her skin, always pale, now glowed with the strange luminescence that some vampires seemed to have. Her dark eyes sparkled at him. Her mouth, Wes realized, was enough to drive a man to distraction in its lushness. And she also seemed to have somewhat more teeth than was necessarily natural, he thought suddenly. This snapped the spell that had held him there against his door and he took a breath that was surprising steady.

"Wes," she hissed at him quietly. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time." But she didn't move, and neither did he.

He couldn't help but to let his eyes fall to her naked body, but he dragged them up to her face again immediately. Even so, in that microsecond of time, she was suddenly right there in his face, not even a foot away. The lack of body heat was so ragingly apparent that it was like a blow to him. And all he could think of to say was, "Where are your clothes, Faith?"

She motioned with her foot to a vague shape on the floor beside her which looked like a rag. "I borrowed that from someone but it didn't really fit so I tossed it," she replied with a casual shrug of her shoulders. Then she cocked her head at him.

"What's wrong, Wesley? You're not into having young naked babes in your apartment? Do I make you ... uncomfortable?" Faith licked her lips and leaned over, mouth poised as if to kiss him. Wesley found himself looking at those red, ripe lips and wondering just how it would feel to have them pressed to his own, and how cold would they be, really, if she did it.

With a sudden jerk, his head snapped back away from her, banging solidly into the door that he had forgotten he was leaning against. Even as he closed his eyes at the pain, Faith pressed forward and kissed him firmly, her hands coming up to pin him against the door. Wesley was overcome with a wave of desire that competed with the feeling of pain and conspired to make him both erect and nauseated at once. Her lips were indeed cold, but they were soft and full and oh, her mouth was opening...

Faith calmly slid her tongue out to lick Wesley's mouth, like a kitten laps at a bowl of cream. There was no hurry or urgency in her - she knew full well she was in charge here, was aware that he knew it, too - and she planned to take her time and do everything she wanted to do, as the whim took her. And right now, what she wanted was to make Wesley squirm. Faith was still wired from the kill, full of blood and adrenaline, and itching to get off. Whether or not she used Wes for that purpose was not something she'd decided on yet. It might be fun to teach her old Watcher a few things before she sucked him dry. Hell, she might be the first and last fuck he ever had. The thought of taking his virginity and then his life made Faith shiver. Her nipples hardened with the roll of desire that swept through her and she brushed them against his shirt as she forced her tongue into his mouth.

And he took it.

Wesley's brain had ceased to function as soon as his cock had gotten hard. Certainly had he been thinking, he'd have been making a move to find a way out, a way to kill her, to find a stake, a cross, something. Certainly he wouldn't be here, letting her press her naked body against him, letting her kiss him like a lover. Kissing her back, harder than anyone would believe that Wesley Wyndham Price was capable of. No, if he had been fully rational, he wouldn't be bringing his hands around to her back, tentatively at first and then, when she just undulated against him, firmly pressing them to her tight ass so that she was in closer contact with him, hips grinding into the hard length of him that seemed to be the only part of his body that knew what to do.

She allowed him the few seconds of pressure and them abruptly she shoved herself away, leaving him disoriented and vaguely angry. Her eyes dropped to the bulge in his trousers and he felt a flush of embarrassment, a desire to cover it. He restrained himself, cleared his throat, tried to focus on what was happening. It was, however, impossible to make sense of anything now. The world as he knew it was no longer in existence. There was no point of reference for what was happening now. A line from an American movie came to him - "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." He waited.

Her eyes heavy lidded, Faith stared at Wesley and considered the pleasantly engorged state of what she had felt him pressing into her hip when he'd grabbed her ass. Having him touch her like that had been a surprise, but not entirely unexpected. He was, after all, a guy, she thought. Proof of it was tenting his trousers even now as she stared at him. Just like a guy, even one as straight laced and uptight as Wes, to let his prick do his thinking. Here he was in the room with a Slayer turned vamp, one who had a grudge against him the size of Boston Harbor, and he still got a hard-on the minute sex entered the equation. It almost made her laugh.

"I see you got your stake all ready for me, Wes," Faith said, her voice loud in the tiny room. "You wanna give it to me?"

"Faith, I -" He stopped talking. What was he to say to her anyway? That he regretted his erection? That he didn't mean to be enticed by her amazingly nubile body when she rubbed it against him? That he was, Good Lord, sorry? She wasn't even Faith anymore, so this was all completely ridiculous. Faith was dead. Something else was in her body, using her skin to house it's evilness. Killing it would be a blessing to Faith's soul, wherever it might be.

So following that line of logic, his brain whispered to him, you wouldn't be fucking your former Slayer, You'd be fucking a demon. How guilty could one be about that? Surely you could get her distracted during sex and then put an end to this tortured existence. And let's not forget that you'd also be fucking that exquisite body...

"Come on, Wes, let's put an end to the torture," she said, almost echoing his thoughts and giving him a nasty jolt as he wondered if she was reading his mind. She cupped her breasts in her hands, tweaked her nipples and winked at him. "We'll do it right here, rough and ready, up against the door."

Faith stalked towards Wesley then, one foot placed precisely in front of the other, hands still cupping her breasts like an offering. Her gaze held him there, unable to break away, even as she reached out to him and pulled open the shirt he wore. She tugged it out of the waistband of his pants and popped the buttons off one at a time. When the buttons had all hit the floor, she tugged the shirt partway off his shoulders so that it immobilized his arms just a little. Of course, he was wearing a crisp white undershirt beneath, and Faith felt a pinprick of...something...when she saw that. But it was gone in less time than it took to form the whole thought and she was tearing the thin cotton right down the middle. Wesley's chest was exposed, covered with dark hair, pretty copper colored nipples hardening when Faith stroked them with her fingertips. She rubbed her own nipples against the fur on his chest and he gasped to feel those cold points hit his own warm skin. His cock was hard as iron and straining the zipper of his trousers. He knew it would be cold inside of her, like wrapping himself in a bag of ice. Oddly, that very thought made him want to know if he was right. He made a fumbling gesture towards his belt but couldn't quite reach because of the tangle of cloth around his arms.

"Yeah, I knew you wanted this, Wes." Faith said, looking at him with a small smile on her face. "All that time you were my Watcher, you were looking around, thinking about how you'd like to give me some private lessons. No wonder things were so fucked up for us, you know? How could I ever listen to a guy who was secretly trying to sniff my panties?" She reached down and grabbed him roughly through his pants. "This is what you wanted to give me all that time, Wes. Isn't it? You might have been chasing Cordie's skirts back in Sunnydale, but when it got dark at night and you were all alone with your hand, it was me you jerked off to. It was me you wanted to fuck, you could just never admit to it."

She tugged again, none too gently, and Wesley whimpered. The voice that had been telling him that it was quite all right to go ahead and have his way with this thing had conveniently deserted him now that events had gotten even nastier. She was hurting him, he should be afraid, but he knew that if she kept doing this, kept tugging at him despite the pain that came with it, he was going to be done with this before it ever got around to anything else. He knew, he could feel, that the front of his pants was wet, soaked in fact, because of how very far along he was. He could tell by the way his cock quivered in her grasp, he was used to that feeling of almost-there, used to getting off in a hand grip. He was alarmed to realize that the pain was enhancing his pleasure, and feared she could tell. Certainly in a moment there would be ample evidence of just how much he was enjoying her abuse if she did not stop. So he gave her what he thought she wanted, an affirmation of her accusations.

"Yes, Faith. It was always you," he said, voice uneven and quivering. "I've always wanted you. Cordelia was just a sham, a cover, so no one would suspect that I dreamed of taking you over and over again." He paused, let his head fall back against the door and his eyes close. He swallowed hard and waited for her to do something, anything. And he wondered how, if she did this right now and he came all over his pants, would he manage to get to the stake that was in the closet? He supposed he could make a break for it as she was doubled over in laughter at him.

But Faith seemed to relax, as if those words of admission were something she had sought for a long time. She softened her grip on the length of him and let her hand caress what it had moments before punished. She surprised him with another kiss while his eyes were shut, tongue plunging into his mouth. Her hands busily undid his belt buckle, and with a yelp from Wesley, his pants went the way of his undershirt, slipping to the floor in tatters. His naked cock lay hot between them, covered in clear, slick fluid. He groaned when she took it in her hands and smoothed the lubrication all over him, pulling back the foreskin with a practiced motion. Then she was on her toes, one leg lifted high against his side, guiding him into her core.

"Ahh, Wes," she sighed out, suprisingly soft in tone. He blinked at her, frustrated by the shallow penetration, shocked that there was some warmth to her after all, and then she rocked her hips and the friction wrenched him into motion.

"Christ!" he ground out from teeth that seemed to be locked together, and clutched her hips in his hands, pushing her down and himself up. Her eyes were closed, he saw, and she was wet between her thighs with her own juices. It gave him some measure of insane pride to think he'd done that to her, not imagining that the things that aroused Faith were things he would never understand.

Faith's head fell forward as her hips churned. Wesley no longer needed to try and move; she was creating the most exquisite rhythm on her own, and he knew he was rubbing against her pleasure spot, he could feel it when she pushed that part of her hard against his shaft. And then he could think of nothing at all but the feeling of cresting, soaring up to the top of some majestic mountain of sensation.

He never noticed the change take her, her skin rippling as the demon came forth. He didn't see her forehead bulge, her teeth grow, her eyes turn from bitter chocolate to glowing gold. When she pressed her face to his neck, he was too caught up in the feeling of orgasm to realize he was seconds from death.

He wasn't even thinking about how he was supposed to distract her in the throes of passion when her teeth sank into his neck and ripped open his jugular. He was already in the spasms of his peak, and his final sounds were shouts of exultation colored with shrieks of pain, and then it was over. His heart stopped beating; his body slipped away from her to huddle in a somehow small and sad heap at the bottom of the door. A thick crimson smear marked his passage. By the time Faith reached her own climax, she was covered in his blood.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Oh, God, to be held again! To be touched by hands that knew him intimately, to be kissed by a mouth that was so skilled, to be stroked by those clever fingers. Angel wondered vaguely why he had ever thought he could go through eternity without this pleasure, this comfort. Without this fulfillment.

They were lying on the bed, finally naked and skin to skin. Angel raised his head and watched as the blonde moved lower down his belly towards his hard and weeping cock. He took as much pleasure in seeing that image as his did in feeling those lips close over the head and the tongue gather up those shining threads that were the evidence of his arousal.

"Jesus, Will," Angel groaned as his cock slid deeper into his Childe's throat. The benefits of not needing to breath were rapidly being reintroduced as he was held in that throat for an impossibly long time, the muscles flexing tighter and tighter. Then he was sliding back out again, a deliciously slow and drawn out process that had always made him insane with the desire to grab Will's head and just fuck his mouth hard and fast until he came. But of course, wanting to do that and knowing he wouldn't was part of the pleasure, the fuel of anticipation making the fire of lust burn hotter. And how could he deny himself the pleasure of Will's agile tongue, pressed to its widest proportions as it was even now stroking down his shaft and back up to the sensitive head. Then he was drawn in between those lips again, sweet pressure everywhere, vague scrape of teeth making him hiss in a breath and buck his hips upwards. Seeing himself disappear into that mouth as glistening blue eyes watched him watch Will made him flush all over, something he would have thought impossible but was happening nonetheless.

Spike glanced up, the head of Angel's cock laying on his tongue. He held his Sire's gaze as he let his hand slip between well-muscled thighs and cup the sac there. Just held it, remembering the soft weight of it, as his tongue licked up and over the slit of the heavy cock in his mouth. Angel let his head fall back onto the pillow and grabbed the sheets in huge fistfuls of linen. He turned his head to the side, inhaling the lavender scent there, as he felt the fingers that held him begin to move. He tensed briefly, but Spike was only rubbing that tender place beneath his testicles, creating a frustrating tickle-itch that made Angel clench his jaw.

He sat up suddenly, catching Spike offguard, and pulled the smaller man to him. From the position he was in between Angel's legs, Spike could do nothing but allow himself to fall forward with the momentum of his grasp and then he was in Angel's arms. And his Sire was kissing him roughly, thoroughly, tongue exploring every inch of his mouth. But slowly, too; he was never in a rush at times like these, not Angel. He liked to savor everything, a trait that benefited them both. Angel held him tightly as he lay back again and their bodies began an achingly intimate slide, chest to chest, hip to hip, cock to cock. Bracing his hands on the bed to either side of Angels' broad chest, Spike used the leverage to grind himself against the larger man below him, the skin between them wet and slippery and incredibly sensitive.

Angel's hips moved up to meet the pressure of Spike's in a spasm he couldn't control. Seeing Spike above him made his head swim, made his skin burn where they were touching and tingle where they weren't. There was nothing in the entire world other than this moment in time, this beautiful man above him, the blue eyes that were dark with passion, the mouth that was slightly open as if waiting to kiss or be kissed. Such a luscious mouth, soft among the angles of Will's pretty face, so completely fuckable. It was like old times, that mouth on his body, bringing him pleasure. Something, however, made him pause and think.

"What is it?" Spike asked, voice thick with desire. He stopped moving against Angel, waited to see what it was that had brought the crease to his forehead when only moments before his Sire had been awash in bliss.

"I don't know," Angel said quietly. He gripped Spike's upper arms. "There's something..." His voice trailed off.

Immediately Spike's face changed. His mouth tightened to a thin line, eyes getting darker yet as anger began to cloud their depths. "Something not right, then?" he said, voice carefully controlled. He felt something sharp and cold go through his heart and for a moment thought he had actually been stabbed. He realized almost immediately after that it was just a pang, an uncontrolled emotion taking root because his defenses had been down. He bit the inside of his cheek and waited.

"Yes," Angel replied, and in a split second Spike found himself on his back, Angel pressed heavily against him, his weight driving them both into the thick mattress. Speechless, he looked up to see a grin on Angel's face. The stabbing pain in his heart gave way to a dangerous flutter when he saw an expression so long lost on a face so greatly loved. He swallowed. Where the hell had _that_ come from?

"Much better," Angel whispered before leaning down to kiss the mouth that had softened again. His full lips covered his lover's, mouths opening in unison, tongues tasting of each other. Although he could never have enough of that mouth, Angel soon moved his attention to Spike's ear, tongue darting out to trace the outer rim, then dipping in briefly, sending chills over the body of the man beneath him. He smiled again, remembering the countless times he'd done the same thing and received the same reaction. Funny how some things just soaked into your skin and you never knew what you knew until it came down to doing it.

Dragging his body down the length of Spike's, relishing the way he groaned at the friction of their cocks pressed together and rubbing, Angel stopped to lick and gently bite first one rust colored nipple and then the other. They hardened at once, small pebbles that he had to taste again, just for the growl it elicited. Hedonist that he once was, Angel had always enjoyed the reaction of his partner as much as his own physical pleasure. Granted, in the past, the reactions he had enjoyed had as likely been shrieks of agony from hours of torture as moans of pleasure from lengthy sessions of sexual indulgence. Be that as it may, the habit of reveling in what he created for his partner had never really been forgotten. So now the little sounds he was getting from Spike as he licked and kissed across the pale skin were as erotically charged as the pressure of Spike's mouth on his cock had been.

Spike let his eyes remain closed and soaked in every touch, every press of lips to his skin. The scrape of tongue across his nipples followed by the pinch of teeth nearly sent him out of his mind. And why in hell had he remembered about the ear? In the hundred plus years since he had shared a bed with the man who was at this moment dipping his tongue into Spike's navel, he should have forgotten how that lick to the inner shell of his ear always made Spike utterly mad. But he hadn't forgotten. The smile on Angel's face told him that he remembered everything. And for once, he seemed to be allowing himself the luxury of guilt-free memories and indulgences long denied.

Then Angel's huge hands were gently urging him to turn over and Spike's cock throbbed when he realized that it was about to get a great deal more indulgent for them both. With a strangely dizzying feeling of deja-vu, Spike found himself on his knees, thighs spread. Angel was on his knees behind him, and then his hands were on Spike's shoulders and his chest was against Spike's back. And with a slow and deliberate movement, he brought his hips up against him, the full length of Angel's hardness nudging into the cushion of Spike's ass. Then more than nudging, in fact, pressing in a way that made Spike press back shamelessly. Despite whatever had been between them over the years, the only thing between them now was what Angel was rubbing against him with languid stokes, and the desire they both had to get it even closer.

When Angel leaned back briefly, Spike almost followed him. But before he could make the effort, he felt fingers caressing him, spreading him, and he rolled forward, instinct and desire and memory taking over. There was a gentle probing that made him gasp as he was invaded, stretched, filled by one digit slicked with clear fluid. He looked down and back between his own legs and saw the same liquid shining on his rigid length, one droplet hanging on the tip, and for some reason that made him shiver. The finger slipped in deeper, turned just a little, then was gone, leaving Spike wanting.

He wasn't left wanting for long, however. Suddenly the thing probing at him was much larger, much more insistent than that finger had been, and he was spread wide as the slippery head of Angel's cock bumped against Spike's tight opening. Spike closed his eyes, gripped the sheets, pressed down with his muscles to try and open the way just a little. Then with a slow burning push, Angel was in. And in. And in. And he was reaching down to pull Spike upright by the shoulder even as Spike was biting into his own lip to muffle the cries that tried to escape him. He tasted his own blood and swallowed it with a gulp.

Angel pulled Spike back against his chest, locked his arm around the blonde vampire and held him there for a moment. They were both quivering, Angel repressing the desire to just pound into the muscles that held him so tight, Spike from the need to pull away and push back at the same time. Then Angel's hand was leaving Spike's chest, grasping the hard cock of his Childe and sliding down the length of it. He whispered, "Are you ready, Will?" and got an exquisitely drawn out groan in reply.

Holding both prick and shoulder of his lover in a firm grip, Angel began to move. The ring of muscle holding his own cock had loosened just enough for him to be able to slide out and back in again in one smooth motion, and it was so good, so fucking good, that he couldn't go slowly from there. He pushed in deeper the next time, hitting the spot inside of Spike that made him writhe in Angel's arms and fuck himself into Angel's hand. They missed the rhythm for a stroke or two but then they caught it again, and they were working in unison, back and forth and up and in, unnecessary breaths coming hard and fast, Spike's head finally rolling back onto Angel's shoulder. Last position finally achieved, neck bare and vulnerable and there was no more holding back of anything for either of them. Then Angel was changing, eyes golden, teeth piercing Spike as his cock drove into him and Spike changed, too, at that final penetration, and jerked into Angel's fist awkwardly, out of control.

The rhythm was gone then, the Sire holding the Childe still as he drank and fucked and drained and then with a groan that was muffled by the mouthful of blood, he came, pressing deep enough into Spike to elicit a growl from the //boy.// And he remembered to stroke with the hand that was still full of hard-on and all it took was one hard slippery slide from head to base and up again before there was wetness everywhere, hitting Spike in the chest and splattering onto the sheets.

Then Angel released his hold on the softening length in his hand, and he took his mouth from Spike's neck. He didn't want to pull out, though, because that would mean it was done and he didn't want it to be done. When it was done, he would have to think about what happened, and what it means. And he was so tired of thinking. What he wanted right now was to stay in this bubble of time that they had created, where it was fine for him to have companionship and pleasure and comfort. So maybe if he stayed connected to Will, maybe if they stay joined, they could freeze the moment for as long as he likes and just be...content.

Angel became aware that Will had not moved at all. His head was still resting on Angel's shoulder, turned to the side, neck exposed. The wounds Angel inflicted were already closing; they looked like little black freckles on Will's pale white skin, and he rubbed a finger over them very softly. His face was shifting back to its human mask. Will's had already changed. Angel waited, but he wasn't sure what he was hoping to happen.

Spike could feel himself beginning to get sleepy. It happened to him every time with Angel, this soporific state he fell into post climax. He imagined that it came from the mental exhaustion involved; with Angel it was never just about the physical pleasure. He didn't want to move, although he wouldn't admit to himself how much he was enjoying the closeness, holding him inside of himself. But his legs were getting tired and he wanted to lay down on the sheets, fuck the fact that they're wet from his coming all over them. So he did, finally, move a little and felt Angel's hand on his shoulder tighten just the slightest bit in protest before letting him go. And then there was that feeling of loss as Angel slipped out and Spike felt more open and vulnerable for just a second but then it that was gone, too. Spike laid face down on the bed, on a pillow that is miraculously dry and wonderfully soft, smelling of Dru which was oddly comforting in the calmness of the aftermath.

Moments later, there was a weight next to him, making him roll just a bit to that side. Spike hid a smile in the pillow and pretended he didn't know that Angel was laying there next to him with his dark eyes wide and his brow uncreased and his mouth soft and probably the slightest bit swollen. And he forgot completely about what brought him here tonight, and what he had set in motion.

~end


	5. Ehpemeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's still all about the blood.

The scent of blood would never leave the apartment where Wesley died. There was too much of it, soaked right through the cheap carpet into the warped wooden floorboards beneath. And right now, while it was still wet, the smell of that blood was like nails on a chalkboard for Faith.

She'd drank her fill of him, savaged his body over and over in a feeding frenzy that culminated in her orgasm. Now she stood in the tiny cramped bathroom and looked at the absence of her reflection in the spotted mirror over the sink. Despite being covered in blood, there was simply nothing there looking back. Her mind refused to grasp the concept of nothingness and she couldn't break the stare. She raised a gory hand and let it press against the glass, wondering at the effect of the smeared trails that appeared out of thin air. She did it again. And again.

Suddenly she exploded with a shriek of anger and fear, driving her fist through the glass, adding her newly borrowed blood to the shards that rained down into the sink and the floor. A few glittering pieces caught in her hair and she shook her head, listening to them join the remains. Her chest was heaving with ragged breaths that tore at lungs unused to the flow of air. A thin keening cry issued from her with every exhalation. Slowly, she sunk to her knees, mindless of the glass that dug furrows into her feet, shins and knees. Tears cut clear paths into the drying blood on her face and she rubbed her hands into the mess. Faith began to rock as she sobbed, but she wasn't even sure what she mourned.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Spike woke to the most unusual sensation of being held. Not captured, not imprisoned, but held like a lover. It had been nearly a century since he'd experienced that sensation with this partner, and he was loathe to move and disrupt it. Snapshots of the past few hours flipped through his mind. What the hell had he been thinking? This had never been in the plan.

//This is why I don't work things out in advance// he mused. //Everything gets buggered in the end anyway//

He let his gaze fall on the big hand that rested on his chest, enjoyed the weight of the arm on his shoulder despite himself. How many years had he awoken, arms and legs tumbled about with his Sire and Dru, all of them naked and lounging like magnificent sated beasts? How many nights had he spent as he had spent last night, being held and fucked and drained, sometimes weeping with the pleasure and pain of it? How many nights since the last time had he wept to *himself* for the loss of it all?

But he had steeled himself to it, made himself content with the knowledge that he had Dru and she was something he could wrap himself around and get lost in. If she could not fill every part of him that was empty, then perhaps there were things that were just not meant to last. Vampires especially, eternal creatures that they were, learned that nothing was a constant in this universe. When he felt the emptiness that the loss of his Sire aroused in him, he simply drowned himself in the scent and feel of Dru, and the blood and deathcalls of their victims.

Decades of that. Years upon years of black pain and red death. Seeming eternities of yearning for completion that he knew would never come. Restoration of his Sire's soul had robbed Spike of something precious and his anger was immeasurable. Anger at Angelus for getting himself in the situation to be cursed, for leaving him and Dru to themselves so *he* could preen and cavort for his Dam, allowing himself to be treated like a pampered pet who accepted any gift given without thought for consequences. For being too bloody stupid to realize that the Romany were not to be trifled with.

Spike found himself grinding his teeth at the memory, at the emotions screaming inside of him, old beasts set free of rusty cages that would not be easily recaptured. And then Angel stirred beside him. Spike closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and swallowed down something huge that stuck in his chest and burned him from within.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Skin against skin.

That was the first conscious thought in Angel's mind as he woke from what he thought had been a dream. A dream inspired by the scents and miseries of old times lost to him, and desires for those things he would never have again. A dream he had had often enough to be familiar with the outcome by now: empty bed, empty arms, bitter disappointment in his mouth, sheets stiff with drying semen spilled in lonely fantasies.

But not today. Today it was the feeling of cool skin against his own, tight muscled buttocks nestled against his abdomen, smooth expanse of chest under his hand. The smoky smell of guttered candles still lingered faintly under the other odors of cigarettes and sex and the essential smell that was Will, something surprisingly clean despite the nature of his Childe. The scent of the ocean, perhaps. Whatever the case, it was Will to the bone. Angel resisted the urge to burrow his face into the skin laid out against him and just...inhale. Refresh the sensory memory.

Will would never allow it. He was already awake, grinding his teeth for some reason, and Angel could make a relatively intelligent guess as to the cause of it. But he was lying still, so Angel stayed still too, and let his mind wander. There were precious few moments like this in their history together, just the two of them alone, and quiet. There was more fighting and pain between them than anything else. The thought saddened him suddenly, as if it was the first time he'd ever made the connection.

Angel blinked and got a vivid memory. Will, shirt off, breeches undone at his Sire's command, cock hard and straining towards him. But his jaw was clenched in anger and the fire in his blue eyes was not born of lust or passion, but of hatred. Raging and unmitigated hatred of his Sire. And Angel - Angelus - was smiling at Will, taunting him for his arousal despite the anger. It had been about Dru of course. It had always been about Dru. Angelus had loved to use her as the surest form of torture to get Will to do his bidding. And that night Angelus had made him stand and watch yet again as he had brought her to climax over and over, roughly, crudely, until she was weeping. But never once had she asked him to stop, never did she beg for mercy. And every time she came, she screamed his name: Angel. Angel. Angel. And Will had been so hard at the end of it, despite himself, despite his anger and his hatred and his desire to protect Dru, that he'd come too, screaming the same name, as Angelus had thrust into him over and over, not even allowing Will the use of his own hand to satisfy himself. Will not needing anything anyway, other than the thrust of the cock inside of him and the piercing of the fangs at his neck.

How Will had hated him that night. He'd spit at him the moment he was allowed to get to his feet, gathered Dru up in his arms and stalked down the hall to his own room, kicking the door shut behind them.

Back in the present, Angel jumped at the memory of that slamming door echoing in his head. Spike was looking at him now, he realized. He had a curious expression on his face and Angel gradually understood it was his best attempt at patience.

"I never took you for the hand holding type," he finally said, scarred eyebrow cocked at Angel's confusion. Slowly, Angel looked down and saw he had indeed captured Spike's hand sometime in those minutes of his flashback and was squeezing it. Hard. He let go as if he'd found himself clutching a cross and Spike shook some feeling back into his fingertips.

"Spike," Angel began. Stopped. Realized that they were still spooned together from the waist down and that if his mind hadn't been on it, his cock had been right on topic. And that Spike was well aware of the way it was pushing insistently into the crack of his ass. Was, in fact, pressing lightly back against him.

"Spike," he said again. His voice was deeper this time, something else there that wasn't in the first attempt at speech. Angel's eyes locked on Spike's, saw equal parts lust and amusement in the blue depths.

"Just shut up, would you?" growled Spike before he twisted himself around and put a hand behind Angel's neck. "It's just what it is. Don't try to sort it out now."

And Spike's kiss effectively shut off whatever reply might have been in Angel's mouth. Instead Angel let himself be pressed back into the mattress by the other man, tasting his tongue as it slipped between willing lips and explored teeth that were blunt for the moment but promised to become sharp and wicked soon.

For the moment, Angel allowed the other man to be the aggressor, letting Spike's nimble hands run over pale flesh that thrilled to the sensation. And when one of those hands slid lower, slipped between them to grasp both their cocks in a loose fist, they pumped together, a slow and exquisite rhythm that was just the beginning.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

Faith shook water from herself like a puppy and then stepped from the shower. The cooler air of the room made her skin, warmed by the shower, prickle into goosebumps and her nipples tighten. Shivering a bit, she stepped lightly over the rest of the shards and out into the bedroom, towling her body lightly as she walked. Through the doorway into the living room, she could see Wesley's shoes, the bottoms of them shiny with dried blood. She looked away quickly as she dropped the damp towel to the floor and stepped over to the tiny chest of drawers. As her hand reached out to open a drawer, she saw it shaking slightly. With a huffing sound of annoyance, she grabbed the handle and pulled the drawer open roughly.

She stared down into a single row of black socks, neatly rolled. Several pair of white boxers. And a small pile of crisp white undershirts. She stood there unblinking for a long time as memories washed over her.

Faith, ten years old. Long hair pulled back in a single braid, red bow tied on the end of it. Both bow and ribbon are loose and slightly sloppy because she has done them herself. Momma is on the couch in the living room and Faith can smell the alcohol from here. She's passed out again, and she's snoring. Faith's nose wrinkles unconsciously as she puts away the clothes she's washed and dried and folded herself.

Daddy's clothes.

Daddy's socks, never rolled, just the tops folded over. Daddy's undershirts, always ironed and then stacked end to end so the pile remains even and the shirts unwrinkled. Daddy's underwear, folded three times and stacked the same way. Everything in its' place because that was the way Daddy liked it. And Faith is so careful to make Daddy happy.

It's so much better when Daddy is happy. Because when he isn't...oh, then it's bad. There's yelling and there's hitting. And sometimes there are worse things than that, things that make her cry for hours, pillowcase stuffed in her mouth so he won't hear and come back and hurt her again. When he does those things to her, her face pressing into his chest while he grunts and pushes and hurts her down there between her legs, all she can see is that white undershirt that she had washed and dried and ironed just right...

Faith shook her head and saw that the undershirt she was staring at was wet. She put a hand up to her face and felt the tears sliding down her cheeks, wiped them away slowly. With a deliberate motion, she reached into the drawer and picked a dry shirt from the bottom of the pile. She shook it out and pulled it over her head, lifting her wet hair out of the collar. She smoothed it over her chest, saw how it fell to her hips and let the shiny dark curls of her pubis show below the hem.

Blinking, she opened the rest of the drawers and took out a pair of gray pants she found there, cinching them tight around her waist with a gray and burgundy patterned tie. She bent over and rolled the cuffs up once, not noticing that they unrolled almost immediately. She looked for a button down shirt but found none in the drawers in the bedroom.

Reluctantly, she glanced towards the living room again, stared at those feet in the loafers as if they would go away if she just looked long enough. But she was getting jumpy, she could feel the sunrise coming in less than an hour, and she had to get back to the car. Not taking her eyes from the corpse, she reached behind her to the bed and grabbed the thin chenille cover, dragging it behind her as she padded towards the door.

The body was not pretty to look at, even for Faith who had done the damage. There were bites, gouges, missing flesh. Splashes of blood everywhere. His eyes were thankfully closed, but his mouth was open and that bothered her. She could hear his final sounds, feel the way he had slid from her, the last of his ejaculate hitting her thighs in a hot stream as he slipped to the floor and died.

Faith shuddered, whipped the bed cover over his body quickly and stepped to the closet. There were the shirts, white broadcloth, pale blue and one light yellow one. She snatched the blue one from its hanger and slipped it on, letting it hang loose around her. She caught a faint scent of cologne on it, realized he must not have washed it after wearing it the last time, and gave a hiccuping sound that might have been a sob. She spied the leather jacket then, way in the back of the closet, hidden in the shadows, and grabbed that, too. She had one arm in the sleeve when she realized she couldn't get out the door without moving his body.

"No," she whispered out loud. "No, no, no..."

Her head whipped around, spied the window and without a thought she took three running steps and threw herself into the thin glass, not even considering that there might not be a fire escape out there to break her fall. But there was, the rusty metal biting into her feet when she stood. She glanced over the side, judged the distance and then leapt gracefully over the railing. She landed on her feet with catlike precision and shrugged the jacket around her properly before setting out for the garage where they had left the car. Spike would be meeting her there soon.

With sunrise urging her on, Faith hurried towards her destination as the sky grew paler at the horizon.


End file.
